Domesticity is Bliss
by RebelWriter6561
Summary: Sherlock will come down with a cold, unless John does something. Fluff with hints of JohnLock
1. Chapter 1

~*~Oh dear, I seem to have stumbled into the wrong fandom. I'll just leave this here and go back to my non-updated webcomics and cheesy singing TV shows.  
>Or maybe I'll stay here and enjoy my new obsession. I like that better.<br>Musical Muse: My Sherlock Playlist. Yes, I have a Sherlock Playlist.  
>Warnings: I'm afraid John has a bit of a dirty mind. Few swears and such. Also, rampant fluff.<br>Disclaimer: To my great regret, I'm not any of the amazing people involved in the show.  
>Major Thank You to my amazing BFFLady Bromance Partner/Beta Kat.

~*~Domesticity is Bliss~*~

He should have been surprised. Shocked, dismayed, angry, exasperated, _something_! But no, being surprised would mean that the situation he was faced with was unexpected. And really, at this point, he came to expect the unexpected, the impossible, the sheer, bloody unpredictability that was life with his partner. The unpredictable and unexpected were normal, and normality and patterns are something to beware of.

All that said and understood, it didn't make the unexpected/impossible/unpredictable easier to deal with, and it didn't make the inevitable fallout look any more appealing.

John was stuck in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe like it would protect him from what was about to happen. But there would be no delaying it, not for much longer. He shivered from the rain-wet clothing sticking to his skin, and knew that the only way to prevent a cold was to take them off and dry off. Sherlock, in true Sherlock form, apparently had deleted that simple bit of information, if his appearance was anything to go by.

He was lying face-down on the couch, his coat and scarf abandoned on the floor. His hair was flattened to his head and glistened by the light of the lamp. John could see – even from the door – that his shirt and pants were also soaked. And he was just _lying on the couch. _

He may be the most brilliant man John had ever met, but he could be such an idiot sometimes.

John didn't want to say anything, because he knew he would only get a sulky response about the human condition or some other insufferable genius answer, but he was a doctor, damnit! He wouldn't just allow Sherlock the opportunity to catch a cold, not while there was an easy solution to the whole bloody thing.

He finally levered himself away from the door, so he could walk across the flat and deposit his bag and coat on the dining room table. He ascended the stairs to his own room, casting a glance over his shoulder to see if Sherlock even noticed his presence. Not even a twitch. Not that surprising.

John undressed and dried off in his room, while assembling the items he needed. Sherlock wouldn't like what would come next, but he certainly wouldn't like a cold very much if one developed. Sherlock Holmes with a cold…John quailed at the thought. He could handle bored Sherlock, he could handle detoxing Sherlock, but sick Sherlock? No thank you.

Finally physically prepared, John took a moment to psych himself up for the task, which would probably include some manhandling. He _certainly _wasn't looking forward to that. Not one bit.

He made a good deal of noise as he went down the stairs. Perhaps Sherlock would rouse himself on his own and take care of his own bloody mess. But John could see his hopes were in vain, as Sherlock was just as recumbent as he left him. Well, if that was how he was going to play this… John simply dropped one towel on his partner's head, and another over his shoulders and upper back. His bottom half was covered with the large blanket that hung over the back of the couch, half-pinned under the unresponsive body.

Laying the rest of his supplies at Sherlock's feet, John proceeded into the kitchen, where he busied himself with making tea. There may have been a slight rustle of activity when the kettle started whistling, but when John glanced over his shoulder, his flatmate was exactly as he left him. Wait…no, he wasn't. John realized Sherlock's feet, thankfully shoes-and-sock-free, had found their way under the pile of cloth at the end of the couch. John smiled to himself as he added sugar and milk to their respective drinks and brought them on a tray over to the couch. Placing it gently on the coffee table (hopefully not interrupting any serious experiments), he sat on the edge of the couch by Sherlock's knees. He reached over and placed a hand on the bony shoulder blades, through the towel, and shook gently.

"Sherlock? Sherlock if you don't sit up properly and drink your tea, I'm going to get cross with you." Yeah, like his opinion had ever made Sherlock alter his activities before.

"Don't want tea." Oh god, please let his voice just be muffled by the cushions, not by congestion. If he was already sick there would be no help for him, and the horror would begin.

"What do you want Sherlock?" John inquired, wondering how hard it would be to lever a protesting man into a sitting position. Absently, his hand started rubbing Sherlock's back, feeling the towel grow damp from the still-wet shirt. He hoped this was indeed helping, not serving to distract or anger his partner.

Sherlock mumbled something, but it was impossible to make out through the thick fabrics. John stopped his rubbing and reached up to remove the towel from Sherlock's head, but the head in question shot up in protest. "I said keep rubbing!" he snapped angrily. The consulting detective's eyes were closed, and he had a rather cross expression on his face. John paused, wondering if he heard correctly. Of course he had; there was no other way to interpret that remark. Maybe he was doing some good after all.

"Do you mind if I move to your head?" Sherlock seemed to consider, or at least his brow furrowed like he was considering, then nodded and laid his head back down. John's gentle hands smoothed down the towel properly over the springy black locks, then just as gently started buffing them dry. Sherlock may or may not have moaned at the sensation.

John relaxed into this rhythmic work, relieved for the moment. Sherlock was cooperating, he was getting dry, and wasn't showing any signs of having caught a sniffle. However, he'd feel a lot better when Sherlock was in dry clothes.

As if reading his mind (not the first time it seemed that way), Sherlock moved his head enough so his voice could be heard clearly and asked, "Is there any chance you brought some dry clothes for me to change into?" John smiled happily at the request.

"I did, but I hope you don't mind, you don't really have any warm-ish shirts…" John trailed off when Sherlock abruptly turned and sat up, towels flopping off left and right. His hair was a dreadful mess that hung in his face as he sat forward to inspect the clothing items John brought down. He picked up the top item, studied it, and then turned to John with a face that said his thoughts quite precisely.

John tried not to blush, and firmly fixed his 'don't argue with me I'm a doctor' look upon his face. "As I was saying, you just have tees and dress shirts, nothing warm like jumpers. I'm letting you borrow one of mine." Sherlock turned his gaze back to the article in his hands, rubbing the tips of his fingers in the thick wool. He stared at it for a long moment, eyes following the pattern woven from cream and red threads. "I suppose…you're right John." He intoned in his thick voice, eyes not straying to where his partner still perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat.

It sounded like those words alone just about killed Sherlock to say, so John didn't tease him like he usually would.

John looked away, blinking happily. This all went better than expected. "Well," he said as he pushed himself up, capturing his teacup as he moved to give Sherlock some space. "I'll just, um, find you a comb. Your hair's a bit of a mess." He moved off to the bathroom, hoping to recover something useful from the somewhat scummy mess.

Behind him, unseen, Sherlock watched him leave, then buried his nose in John's jumper. He inhaled deeply and smiled.

~*~Another chapter or two? Maybe/possibly/probably. Please tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

~*~Behold, chapter two. Boy did I have _fun _writing this. I hope you have fun reading!  
>Musical Muse: My every growing Sherlock playlist.<br>Warnings: No swears (I think…) but rampant fluff. But rampant fluff is the best kind, so it's all good.  
>Disclaimer: I don't own John's cuddly jumpers, 221B, or anything mentioned in this piece.<br>Once again, I shower love and Twinkies upon my beta/Lady Liaison Kat.

~*~Domesticity is Bliss~*~  
>~*~Chapter 2~*~<p>

Brushing Sherlock's hair turned out to be an adventure in itself. After pulling John's jumper over his half wet/half dry head, those long curls were hopelessly mussed and tangled, making John and his comb feel like they were losing the battle. To make matters even more fun, Sherlock turned out to be as squirmy as any four-year-old (no surprise there), and refused to stop long enough for John to do a proper job. Eventually he sniffed loudly and shook his head wildly, curls flipping in John's face.

"Enough, John. You can't tame my hair, no matter how hard you try. It's impossible." He tried to stand and wound up tripping over the blankets and spare clothes bunched around his legs. John caught him and pushed him back on the couch.

"Oh no you don't." John huffed. "You've avoided your tea long enough; drink it. If you get sick, I'm not taking care of you." John turned away before he saw Sherlock's look: Heavy skepticism with a hint of challenge. Picking up his own cup, John took a deep sip and smiled into the cup when he heard Sherlock do the same.

John decided to mark the previous events down as a success. Sherlock was dry(ish), he was drinking warm liquids, and showed no signs of a cold, yet… unless Sherlock developed a sniffle or cough later that evening, John was going to celebrate this small victory by finishing his tea and watching telly.

Of course, John's celebrations came to a screeching halt the next morning.

Sherlock had seemed fine when they had retired around midnight. He'd been maybe a little drowsy, but nothing alarming by any means. John had slept soundly through the night and the next morning descended the stairs with a light heart and clear head, ready to face a normal day at the clinic.

He really should have known better. Normal was not something that happened in 221B.

He was halted at the bottom of the steps by the most anguished groan he had ever heard in his life. And it was calling his name.

"Joooooooooohhhhhhhnnnnnn…" It was either a Canadian bull moose that had somehow learned to speak and found its way into Sherlock's room, or Sherlock himself. John actually found himself wishing for the latter as he opened the door into his flat mate's darkened lair. The curtains were drawn, and the room gave off a closed-off musty feeling, even though Mrs. Hudson had cleaned it just last week. In the middle of Sherlock's bed was a blanket-covered lump, presumably the detective himself, but John was still holding out hope for a moose because he had a bad feeling that his worst fears were about to be realized…

"Jaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwnnnnnn nnnnn…" moaned the lump. It twisted to and fro like a caterpillar for a few moments, before a familiar angular face emerged from a fold. It regarded John with a look that demanded pity. "I'm dying." Sherlock mournfully informed his doctor.

John stared at him from the doorway, face determinedly blank. Inside, of course, he was raging, despairing, wishing he had never gotten up, never gone to investigate the noise. But then, that wouldn't be him. His friend was in trouble, however severe trivial it was, and it was his responsibility to care for him. His good mood dashed, he mentally began prepping for a tiresome day caring for Sherlock.

"You're not dying Sherlock. Now, knock it off." John decided that he would put up with a sickly Sherlock if he must, but he was in no mood to handle the dramatics. Lord, hadn't the man ever had a cold before?

John's train of thought smacked solidly into the cow of bad implications. Surely he must have, sometime in his childhood, but _who had taken care of him_? Not Mycroft, surely, and he could estimate enough from the brother's interactions that whatever parental supervision there had been was minimal. Maybe the only attention he ever got was when he was sick, or he used it as an excuse for attention. Whatever it was, it obviously carried over into adulthood, if Sherlock's current behavior was anything to go by.

This didn't excuse Sherlock's actions, but it did lend itself a little of John's sympathy. If it was to be unavoidable, so be it. Sherlock was still staring at him with glassy eyes, unaware (or maybe totally aware) of John's thoughts. "John, you clearly don't realize how serious this affliction is. I'll be dead in a matter of hours." His voice was so serious, so resigned, John almost believed him. But then Doctor John, with the force of all his medical instructors behind him, gave him a sharp mental slap.

"You're not going to die Sherlock. I won't allow it." John informed him sharply as he crossed the room to the windows. Throwing back the curtains, he forcibly opened the windows, wincing at the resulting squeal. Had these particular windows ever been opened? He wasn't sure.

"John! What are you doing, trying to kill me faster?" Sherlock shouted from the bed. John turned to him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.

"You need fresh air; it's the stuffiness in here that made you sick. Now, I'm going out to pick you up medicine, and when I get back I'll make tea. You will be out of bed by that time, and will drink both, and there will be no argument or negotiation." With that, John marched out of the room, completely missing the look Sherlock sent after him. It was puzzled, and yet strangely happy. Bossy John was fun.

Sherlock considered remaining in bed, just to see how John would react. Would he barge into the room and physically force him from his bed, or would he succumb to any pleading demands Sherlock could muster? At much fun as _that _could turn out to be, for the moment Sherlock wasn't sure he could trust his pleading to be anything but sincere, so he decided not to risk it.

The next step, then, would be to get out of bed – a truly daunting prospect. It was COLD out there, especially since John opened the window. He considered his usual sheet robe, but that was simply too thin and uncomfortable for him in his fragile state. Bathrobe and pajamas? Surely not enough to convince John of his life-threatening ailments.

Suddenly, an idea dawned on him, and he lifted the sheets to stare at the article of clothing that he had held close through the night. Well now, why not?

The sight that greeted john when he returned, bearing orange juice, fever pills, and cough syrup – that even he as a doctor had to admit was noxious – was a solid wall of fabric (some patterned, some not), creating a solid foam barrier between himself and his what he presumed was his sick flatmate. The couch, John's chair, and John presumed every other seat in the flat was conspicuously missing its cushion, the padding lending itself to the creation of Sherlock's hiding place. _He really is like a child_, John thought and shook his head as he went to the kitchen. A glance over the shoulder showed him where the entrance to the cushion and pillow cave was, and he wondered if it was even worth trying to get Sherlock to come out and sit at the table.

When he turned round again, after putting the kettle on, he saw a rather bleary pair of blue eyes peering out at him from the fort. John blinked, put off for just a moment, because there was something strange about what he was seeing. _As if there wasn't anything strange about your partner in a pillow fort_. He shrugged mentally at the thought, before realizing that what was putting him off was that Sherlock was back to wearing _his _jumper. _Again_. A sheet robe or even his bathrobe John could see Sherlock dressing in for a sick day, but hanging on to John's jumper…

It wasn't…unexpected, not odd, but something about the sight was poking at John in a way that didn't feel quite normal.

But since normal itself wasn't normal…John stopped himself before he went down that mental road. He wasn't quite ready to go there.

Shrugging it off for the moment, John turned back to the immediate problem. Sherlock didn't seem to be willing to leave the pillow pile, so John poured a glass of orange juice, grabbed a packet of pills and the disgusting cold medicine, and approached the cushion castle.

Sherlock scuttled back from the opening, leaving John no choice but to crouch down and stick his head in. He was stuck with unexpected admiration at Sherlock's fort conducting abilities, for it was actually slightly roomy and less claustrophobic than he expected. Sherlock sat in the far corner, a king in a cuddly jumper and sitting on a throne of pillows, the ones off of his and – John winced – John's bed.

There was no way to avoid what would happen next, so John grit his teeth, shoved his pride firmly into a corner, and asked, "Permission to enter?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course John," his deep voice – as sickly-soundly as the rest of him appeared – seeming _somehow_ out of place coming from a pillow fort. "Just leave the cold syrup outside; I won't touch it."

~*~And…that's it. The end. Thanks for reading!  
>Yeah, right. Kidding. I can get another chapter out of this. At least. So please review.<p> 


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